On Zumba…

Posted on June 30, 2018 by writingtowardshappy

6/30/2018

I don’t understand why more guys don’t do Zumba. It’s free or cheap live exotic dancing in a socially acceptable setting. No one expects the dance to look great. In fact, most of us hate those skinny bitches who do it all perfect and sexy. Fuck them. Since I’ve lost weight and can dance I think I might be one of them now. But I don’t care. It feels fucking good.

I do things in Zumba I’d never do in “real life.” I want to be watched, complimented, to be in the dance and then walk away. It’s all a practice. This one’s just more sexy. And currently mostly a reprieve from men seeking women. What a comedy that might be…

Sent by God

Posted on March 15, 2017 by writingtowardshappy

3/15/17 10:54pm

A strange thing happened tonight. I was out to pizza with a friend and I had my dog Ellie. I know crazy people are drawn to me but tonight’s variety was different. I was at the counter waiting for a change in receipt when a disheveled man came in from outside and asked about Ellie. He started talking about PTSD service dogs and mentioned he was homeless. He told me he saw a super famous doctor in La Jolla once. I asked if he was a vet and he said no, that he wasn’t part of “the killing machine.” I tried to end the conversation and go back to my friend but no such luck.

The man came with me and sat down with us. He said there was something he wanted to tell us, something important. I have no idea what it was. I do remember him saying the word “bitchin'” and his name being Greg. My brother’s name is Greg and he’s the only one I’ve ever heard say that word. I wanted to give him a low income housing resource. Instead I heard about his experience being homeless, his family structure, some pro-Trump ranting, and how if he’s going to join a gym it has to be 24 Hour Fitness because it’s right down the street.

The man was filled with tears. He knew we wanted him to leave, yet he stayed. He asked if he could pray for us. He put out his hands and I held one and closed my eyes. He said a powerful prayer for my friend and I. God was there. I could feel it. He walked away and we took our pizza and left. The feeling stayed with me that God was there. Before I got in the car he showed up again and said to me that he really needs my help and would I PLEASE help him to get some place to live, some place with a bathroom and a shower, that he would work hard. He just really wants help. It was sincere. He never asked me for money or to buy him anything. He came to bring God to me.

I got in the car and told my friend about faith, that what is holding me up now is faith. I don’t understand what’s happening and I can’t fix or change it, but what I have is an unending faith and a posse of blessings and a crowd of people who love and support me. I have Jesus. I let go and trust. I am held. I’ve been really scared and, as my friend would say, “losing my shit,” and tonight God sent me a homeless man to refocus, to reconnect. He didn’t go anywhere. He never stopped caring for me, making everything right. Sometimes I just can’t see.

Thank you so much, God, for loving me. Please show me how to help your servant Greg.

Cheetos in a teacup

Posted on March 30, 2012 by writingtowardshappy

3-30-12 4:23am

Sometimes I wonder why I’m still awake at four o’clock in the morning, like tonight as I sit here eating my Cheetos out of a teacup. Chip bags are just annoying. And then something happens. Something always happens. Right as I started to think about heading for bed I got a crisis FB message. Now I’m chatting with said friend.

The conversation reminded me of something my doctor told me a few weeks ago. He said he doesn’t believe that I’m going to get better. I let the comment slide. Had I been feeling particularly awful it could’ve pushed me over the edge. But I’m not. It was actually helpful. After feeling upset for awhile, I decided that if I’m not going to get better I might as well have fun where I’m at. I don’t have to like it, but I don’t have to feel tortured by not healing. I spend an enormous amount of time and energy trying to figure out what’s wrong with me and how to fix it. It’s exhausting. It goes in waves. Energy, answer-seeking, exhaustion, loss of hope, lull, happy, hopeless, desperate, repeat. I’m not abandoning the cycle completely, but right now I’m not searching. I’m coping. My goal is to start LIVING.

Wow. What a concept. I don’t really understand this living thing. It’s always been about getting better and doing worse and fending off death. Or hastening death. But never about life… (ponder as I continue my crisis chat)

I never thought I’d live to be this old. 26. People say it’s a small number, that I’m young. I don’t see it that way. When I was little my dad had Huntington’s Disease. It’s a nasty illness that basically eats your brain and you die. And there was a good chance that I had it too. It wasn’t an option to consider the future. I still don’t even really understand what that means. So it baffles me when I realize I’m 26. Half the time (really more) I don’t remember how old I am and people think I’m either dramatically older or younger, depending on the day.

I’m not sure I want to embrace the concepts of life or future. It’s almost safer to just have now. If I expect to live ’til I’m 40 and then become terminally ill at 30, I’m gonna be pissed. But if I only expected to live ’til yesterday, it’s a prize. You know? They say life’s a bitch, but it’s much quieter.

Anyway, there’s always a reason that pops up when I think there’s no reason. Tonight it was a good one. I just wish my teacup of Cheetos was bottomless. DAMN! I just remembered I wanted to try eating them with chopsticks. Do I even own chopsticks? I don’t know.

It’s 4:45am and I can feel the wave of energy come over me. I would call it psychomotor agitation but it’s not unpleasant, more like a hyper puppy waiting to play. I still follow the sunrise rule but it’s dark out. I guess my internal sunrise comes sooner. That or I’m sensitive to Cheetos and crisis. I feel like a teenage girl about to meet Justin Beiber. Seriously. Only I’m alone in my kitchen talking to my invisible computer friends. Maybe one of them’s Justin Beiber. Could be. You never know. He could be randomly googling the Panda Express kids meal, which is oddly the number one thing people google to get to this blog. Who knew? Eat a kids meal, get new readers. Works for me. All for the low price of $4.95. Sweet. And sour. ;)

Gosh I’m bored. This darkness sunrise makes my thoughts race. I need to bounce up and down and yell and shout and sing and MOVE. AHHHHHHHHHHHH! (deep breath) I should take my night meds.

I’m 26. I found a Subway today that still carries regular mayonnaise. Thank the good Lord. And the bad one too. I’ve yet to learn how to be a kid but it’s on my to do list. Workin’ on it. I should take my night meds. Stream of consciousness. Does a body good… So does Oscar the Grouch, and drugs, and Cheetos in a teacup. Here’s to hoping my friend lives.

Love, Michelle

A Guardian and other randomness

Posted on March 30, 2012 by writingtowardshappy

3-30-12 12:55 am

i wonder how the mind works seven in the night. Tonight I went to a bar to hear music. I pondered the plasticity of the brain and soft shoe dancing. And “Mona Lisa” made the joints of my ring finger tingle. I wrote about my feelings and fears, drank tea and ate bad chicken. Altogether a good night.

I was disturbed though by this one waiter. He’s never nice to me. He tries to appear to be but he’s cocky. He asked to see my ID to be in the bar after I’d already ordered. I said since they serve food there’s no age limit. He said I would need a “guardian” with me. Wow. How old do I look? I’m not drinking. I’ve been there many times before. My behavior is not disruptive. I walk around and write. Even 20 year olds don’t have guardians. I felt offended. He blamed it on his manager. I guess tea drinking chicken eating writers are not wanted as regulars there. Quite disconcerting. For the record, I’m 26. And sober.

I talked to Jim today about my trip to GA. I went to Possum Trot last weekend and had a blast, remembered how much I love clogging and how much I need to do it more. The project/idea side of my brain started scheming and I decided I need to take a trip to GA to find myself through clogging for a month. My mom is completely against it, says it’s ridiculous and crazy. My friends and providers think it’s great. I think it’s awesome and exciting and terrifying. But I so wanna do it. I found a craigslist room for rent ad there and actually emailed about it. I want to find me. Wherever I left her she’s waiting.

I took a trip to GA 8 years ago under very different circumstances. I’ve grown a lot since then. It’s something to remember. I want to learn to be more independent, to take care of myself and not have to rely on others. I think this might be like a missions trip. Mission: Find me. Get away for a time from everything here, everything doctor, illness, all the labels and expectations. Write, dance, breathe. I don’t know if it will happen but the planning gives me hope. A thing to believe in. A thing to be.

It’s weird. Today I hear the cadence of what my thoughts should be, but I can’t quite hear the words. It’s annoying. And free. Really it’s not free, but it should be. Knee. Things rhyme but they don’t make sense. Whatever. Just me. I spent $95 at Victoria’s Secret today to get a free umbrella. I shoulda just bought an umbrella. They never have panties that fit me. I know I have a big butt but it’s not THAT big…

Zoe’s on the door and I can’t think. I noticed at the workshop this weekend that I didn’t have as much trouble thinking. Less confusion and thought blocking. And the more days of not dancing the worse it gets. I have to wonder if I danced every day if I’d be less confused. Life processed through dancing makes sense. Life processed through other things is just a mess. Oh yes. (sigh)

I’d really like some peanut butter and jelly. Not so much the bread. Imran. (big smile) I know I’m rambling, but I like rambling, and so do you. Here’s to not making sense. (clink)

I gotta sleep. I feel like someone rearranged all the connections in my brain and it no longer works right.

Happy trails, Michelle

PS – I’ve lost my love of capital letters lately. like wearing pajamas to work.

(happily watching Stand Up For Mental Health videos and random YouTube comedy)

Tacos in Space

Posted on December 31, 2011 by writingtowardshappy

12/30/11 11pm

J- was really high tonight. I noticed immediately. It was annoying. It seems hypocritical of me to judge him for being stupid. But everyone knows I hate stupid people.

I got the best compliment from Barbara, whom I met for the first time tonight. I heard someone shout my name (her) then, “I want to be you!” Lol. THAT is awesome.

I’m really hungry. Got the jazz munchies. Need tacos. It’s always tacos. Mmmm. Tacos.

I’m on the trolley. I feel like I’m floating. I’d write on the lines but it’s hard to write at all. My hand wants to dance. Or float. It wants to float. I keep it grounded with the pen. Hmm. I need tacos. (3) I like tacos. :)

I hear strange piano music as I ride through the mist. They should sell this as “an experience.” That it is. Tacos in space. Tacos in space, man. Tacos in space.

You know, when I take my pearls off and ride the trolley with a bag of recyclables, people think I’m a hooker.

The music won’t stop in my head. It just keeps playing, faster and faster. It’s tiring me. Please. I just need tacos. I don’t want to interfere with the tune passing through me. But I’m dizzy and so cold and it’s hard to breathe. Music passing through me.

G, the strange experiences happen a lot around you, when you play. Why? What is it you’re not telling me? You are a portal. I am a seed.

(switch to “I Hope I Get It” from A Chorusline)

—

Mainlining Jazz

Posted on December 31, 2011 by writingtowardshappy

12/30/11 9:45pm

Some people do drugs. I don’t do drugs. I do music. And not just any music. Jaazzz music.

Funky shit tonight. I feel dizzy & confused. I shouldn’t listen to the flute. Between my eyes hurts. The dose of poison lies in their minds.

Tonight I am waiting on the dawn of a pirate ship. I’m sitting on the floor behind Chuck’s podium. The fog is thick and everything is lit up. The night is quiet and a cool breeze jostles just the leaves. Something is coming. The ship is coming.

I sit here inside Dizzy’s and watch it happen, all without sound – just jazz – through the windows. The energy is here and the ship is coming. I feel paranoid. Oh the energy. Breathe. Invading my mind.

It may be possible the alien ships use the fog to pass in the night undetected by the human eye. No one really knows what lies beyond. I feel dizzy. I think I’m overdosing. Too much jazz. TOO MUCH JAZZ.

AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I feel frantic. Breathe…

The world is turning now. There is no one here.
They’re coming. The ships are coming.

I need to call Dr. N.

(trumpet stops, bass starts)

My face is hot, whole body tingles. Feel euphoric. Try to breathe.
The sound bends time. Keep light in mind. And I’m the sober one.

Mainlining jazz. I feel dizzy. —

More often than not this happens when Gilbert plays. Spirit energy.

___

Cold. Now it’s cold. Why is it cold?! More flute. GO AWAY FLUTE!

Hard to breathe. In… Out…

Dead Cat – not that one

Posted on November 12, 2011 by writingtowardshappy

11-12-11 12:57am

Some coyote left a disemboweled cat in my yard today… Dude, finish the job, ok? Is this punishment? What did I ever do to you? While I AM fascinated by the intact aortic artery (more like bewondered), I do NOT appreciate the freaked out mom and pool of blood staining my blue kitty litter yard. Ugh. Really.

I called the police for a pick up but the probee who answered the phone told me they don’t pick up cats because they’re not domesticated. (???) I said, “Well, they’re not wild.” He insisted he was right because they are not licenseable like a dog or a horse. (You can license a horse? Alrighty then.) I asked again what I am supposed to do with this cat. He told me that I should probably just put it in a trash bag and put it in my dumpster. At this point I reminded him that placing a dead animal in your dumpster is illegal. (pause) Uh huh. I’m hoping he felt as stupid as he sounded.

Finally he consulted with his fellow dispatchers who told him that he is, in fact, an idiot and that Animal Control DOES pick up cats and how to contact them. He neglected to place me on hold for this conversation.

I have kept my urge to take pics of the dead cat in check, so far. Unlike my house guest for the night. (hint, hint) My mother is freaking out. Still. I would usually just put the cat on a box lid and take it down to the vet. But man, this cat is gutted. Literally. Lol. Wow. I never thought I’d have a literal sense to use that word in. (pause for more bewonderment) But I just couldn’t bring myself to box this cat. It’s fuzzy and cute and not fully in rigor yet. :( Leave it to the animal pros. Or at least the ones that deal with dead ones on a daily basis. That is, if the coyote doesn’t come back to pick up it’s doggy cat bag before morning.

You know, a cat gutted a gopher in my yard once. Coolest thing I ever found. And then it was gone. (SHOCK!) I was so disappointed… I can still see it in my head. Is there some diagnostic name for fascination with guts? If so, I think I have it. Or I need it. Maybe I could eat it and then it would become PART of my guts. Way cool!!! Lol.

Oh, man. I need to sleep.

Cheers, M

Random Interesting Facts

Posted on May 1, 2010 by writingtowardshappy

1-17-10

Random Interesting Facts

I have little to no concept of time.
I absolutely HATE brushing my teeth. It makes me gag and I don’t do it often.
I hate soap, can’t stand it, and avoid it whenever possible.
If I don’t stink and my hair looks okay, I don’t shower.
I love touching different textures – walls, peoples clothes, foods etc. But it has to be even – touched w/both hands or all 10 fingers.
I walk either on the cracks or avoid them, never (or rarely) randomly. If walking on the cracks or lines there is a certain place on my feet they much touch. Either way, I must step on as many with one foot as the other.
I can’t stand slimy things – with the exception of pumpkin seeds.
I love the feeling of taking off in an airplane and used to be able to count down to the exact landing.
I used to collect mini-clocks and have a box of trolls in my closet.
I don’t do ethnic, meaning if it’s not a standard Americanized version of American, Mexican, or Italian food or fast food I don’t eat it. I do Panda Express for Chinese but don’t bother trying to give me curry, Greek, Mediterranean, African, Indian, Middle Eastern or any other food.
I lack the ability, on most days, to leave a store with only what I went in for.
I love cats, hate snakes, and have never owned a dog.
I hate being told what to do.
I love anything soft and the color pink.
In the 6^th grade I thought in 10 years I would be either on Broadway or a kindergarten teacher.
At midnight on New Year’s Eve every year I call my 8^th grade history teacher.
I have 748 contacts in my phone and have had the same email address since the 8^th grade.
I hate staying home.
I love riding the train.
I love the smell of wet dirt and desert rain.
Writing this is making me nervous.
I can’t stand hair, even my own, once it’s left wherever it’s supposed to be.
I have several life insurance policies.
I have a ton of debt.
I love good paper and the smell of fresh copies.
I’ve always wanted to work at Kinko’s.
I am ashamed of my family.
I have a brother I’ve never met.
I don’t have a drivers license.
I don’t’ believe in sport fishing, especially catch and release.
Writing helps me feel connected. My journal always listens to me.
My favorite stores are New York & Company and Staples.
I played the trumpet and French horn for a few years.
I am a triple threat.
I hate killing things – even bugs.
I don’t eat anything that looks like it did when it was alive, lives underwater, or has no legs.
Staying home makes me stir crazy.
I demand choices but have a very hard time making decisions.
Eating peanut butter helps my anxiety.
I hate holidays.
I have a box of books and shoes for the dance studio I hope one day to own.
I own my own drill.
The cloth-monkey study, learning about it, affected my life dramatically.
I’ve been rejected by eHarmony. :(
I don’t cook or clean.
I believe in having fun, following the rules that make sense, breaking the ones that don’t, forging new paths, reinventing and improving the wheel, and following your dreams. You only get to live once, right? Question authority, take a stand. What’s the worst that can happen? Losing it all? Done that. What’s next? Bring it on.
My favority place in the world is the top of the Dumbo ride at Disneyland with my arms stretched out wide. Pure joy. And, pending there is no sniper atop the carousel, nothing can get me. I am perfectly safe. :) (sigh) Feels wonderful to imagine…
I received an award for the only student ever to ask for “more math, please.”
I love bluegrass.
Many of the things and people I now love I first hated.
I eat cooked carrots with mustard.
I have hundreds of pens but very few I will actually use.
I still have most of my Barbies and boxes of trophies and plaques in the garage.
I don’t and never did get the concept of “play.”
I’m trying to get younger by the year. I’m tired of being an old soul. I want to be a kid.
I LOVE to swing. :)

5-1-10 I also hate the smell of a sneeze and LOVE a singing fiddle and almost anything Disney. :)

Writing Towards Happy

The experience of making positive change in my life

Tag Archives: random

Cheetos in a teacup

A Guardian and other randomness

Tacos in Space

Mainlining Jazz

Dead Cat – not that one

Random Interesting Facts